Hearts, Stars, and Horseshoes
by Rurouni-Wolf
Summary: Here I thought things couldn't get any worse. But I'd forgotten something--I was the guardian angel of one singular Harvey Dent. Please. Kill me now. GOD DAMMIT, JOKER!
1. Chapter 1

I hate my existence.

I really, really do.

Y'see, I can't really call it a _life_, per se. Technically, I'm both still alive and been dead about five hundred years. Yeah. Fucked up, ain't it?

"Aw, somebody having a rough day?"

I replied with a vague snarl.

"Hey, get outta the way! She hasn't had her morning cuppa crap yet," somebody called out, snickering.

I gave it the finger, and continued walking.

"You left your charge alone?" Gwen frowned, mouth twisting like a pretzel.

Geeze. Guess being dead for more years than I can count doesn't remove a stick from an asshole.

"Gwen, I really, really, _really_ didn't need to see what the two of them were, erm, _getting on_ together, hokay? Seriously, do I look like I need more mental trauma?" I muttered, grabbing a large cup and pouring the closest bottled liquid into it.

Gack. By the taste, it was paint thinner.

I want some soap.

Oh, I'm sorry. I should probably introduce myself, even though I don't really give a damn about 99.9 of other people... you probably included. Hey, I've been around for a few centuries now; I have street cred.

I am a guardian angel.

Well, _angel_ is just for lack of a better term. Really, I just belong to an organization of deceased people (mostly women, it seems we're better protectors than men—go figure) who, being bored to tears with the thought of an eternity of doing—well, _nothing—_decided to work to save people we called 'charges' (and, believe me, sometimes it _was_ like a criminal sentence) for the hell of it.

Yeah. We're all that damn bored.

Everybody, supposedly, has a guardian angel. While I can't speak for God, I can tell you this—there ain't no billions of us floating around. I work the Gotham district, which means there's about fifteen of us, all total. Yeah. People wonder why the city's gone to shit.

Hey, we're dead, give us some slack. We intervene when we can, but basically we're incorporeal beings with too much time on our hands who try our hardest to nudge people into self-preservation. Sometimes it works, sometimes it doesn't. We're not told to not get emotionally attached to our charges, because it's pretty much impossible. You spend birth to death (which, admittedly, sometimes comes too quick despite best efforts to the contrary) with a person, you get feelings for them.

Don't get me wrong—I never, ever fall in love with a charge. Honestly, it's like falling in love with—with—I dunno, your _kid_ or something. You see all the things you never, ever wanted to know about them, all the disgusting little habits, and it just kinda... turns you off.

So, anyways, back to the reason I hate my existence--

I am the guardian angel of Harvey Dent.

Yeah. I know.

Too bad you can't kill a dead person.

Maybe I shoulda retired after Jack the Ripper.


	2. Chapter 2

AN: So, my first venture into the lovely, demented world of Batman. While I have had many ideas for a Batman fic, most of them have been drama-centered. And this fic decidedly is _not_. Honestly, you know you're having waaaay too much fun with a story when you name it after a _Lucky Charms jingle_. So, in lieu of that: feel free to not take this story seriously. God knows I don't. And no, I guarantee that this story is Jokermance (Joker romance) free. Except for Dent/Dawes, I doubt there will be _any_ romance in this. So, kick your feet back, grab some popcorn, and come for a ride.

--giggily,

RW

* * *

I nearly had a heart attack when that stupid, god-fucking-damn sonuvabitch pulled the gun on _my charge_ in the courtroom. So, I did the best thing that I could. I spat on the bullet.

No, I do not have magical, bullet-stopping spit. No, I do not have an acid mouth. (well, does my vocabulary count?) It was pure, dumb, desperate luck that it dampened the gunpowder enough that the cheap piece of shit didn't go off.

I was never so proud of my Harvey Dent as when he punched the ever-loving shit out of the guy.

Sniff. They grow up so fast.

I rolled my eyes when he said, "But, Your Honor, I'm not finished yet." Yes, yes, we all know that you're the brave Gotham District Attorney, the ever-loving White Knight of a city that has, in polite terms, become a cesspool of insanity and crime.

Gotham City is the toilet of the universe.

I swear, not even Kyoto during the Bakumatsu (whee, now _there's_ a lifetime—or three—of nightmares) was as bad as here, and there the streets were _painted_ with _blood_. And still, Gotham had a higher rate of insanity and crime than any place I'd ever been to before. Hell, Rome'd been a veritable paradigm of moral fiber compared to here.

So, I quietly chuckle and then have the lovely image of whapping him on the back of the head quite soundly. Damn, if I still had a human body, Harvey Dent would be giving me gray hairs.

And heart attacks. Quite a lot of cardiac arrests.

Yay. Rachel Dawes! I like her. Keep's ol' Harvey's nut from cracking... and his other nuts happy. OHOHOHOHO! What, a dead girl can't enjoy a naughty sense of humour?

Pssh.

Anyways, I realized from the moment that Rachel Dawes entered my personal hell's life that she was the key to his sanity. So, now I have to keep not just Harvey alive, but Rachel too. I see a whole helluva lotta tension between Wayne/Rach/Harv, but meh. I trust her to make the right decision.

If not, I'll wring her scrawny little neck myself.

Letting the two of them... _bond_... that night, _after_ checking any and all possible dangers (honestly, it was getting to the point I was eying the plastic cutlery to prevent some freak accident), I headed back to the lounge area.

" 'lo," somebody mumbled.

I raised an eyebrow.

"You look like hell," I said bluntly.

It was Mary, a fellow guardian working the Gotham beat. She looked slightly singed and smelt of gasoline.

"I just met my charge."

I rolled my eyes, and sighed.

"Lemme guess. Insane psychopath?"

She nodded miserably.

"The Joker, he calls himself. Dammit, I hate these late cases, _especially_ with guys like these!" she wailed into her arms, giving a muffled shriek.

I grimaced at the ear-splitting noise.

"I get the feeling that your charge is going to be, ah, the _death_ of mine," I said darkly.

She peered up at me bleary eyed.

"I've been with the little monster for about four days, and I'm about ready to put in for a transfer. Honestly, the man is deranged. Pure evil. Hell, Stalin was a nicer guy than him," she brooded moodily over her drink.

"Dude, my last charge was Jack the fucking Ripper. Spare me the sob stories," I sneered, "and keep your guy the _hell_ away from mine."

Mary peered up at me, murky grey eyes glinting with something sharp and predatory.

Oh hell. I've awakened the infamous Mary Spectre's (yes... that is her name... yes, every joke in the book—been done, trust me) fierce bargaining instinct. I swear, she should have chosen to be reborn as a hunter or something. Or a member of the fashion industry. Yes. Go torture some poor models and underlings, please.

"Whadda ya say? I stay on with the Psycho Krusty from Hell, you do your thing with Dent—nice job in the courtroom today, by the way--"

"Let the spit fall where it may," I replied sagely.

"--and we try to keep _both_ our charges alive," she finished smugly.

"That's the general idea, Mary. We all try to keep our charges alive," I snarked back.

She rolled her eyes in that oh-so-endearing condescending way of hers, and I gritted my teeth.

"But, equal exchange of information. Like, say, a bombing threat against your little darlings..." she left it hanging in the air.

I swore. Oh, and how; long and loud, just like the situation demanded.

"Omae o korusu," I snarled viciously, "and what bomb where?"

She smiled smugly.

Little bitch. Forget that we were good friends.

She. Was. Going. Down.

"Weeeeell... Near as I can figure out without too many trips into that sociopath's head (which is disturbing, to say the least), he's planning something big. Like, really big."

"Like, how does that affect me?" I parroted back nastily.

Ignoring me, like she'd learned to do, she continued on.

"And since the Joker has such a _nasty_ way of surprising everybody—me included, I'm afraid to admit—forewarning could save your little DA's sorry little hide," she smirked.

I am about to commit angelicide.

Wait. Can you kill a person who's already died? DAMN IT.

Sighing to myself, I felt the beginnings of a massive migraine descending on me like some stupid cloak of ow. Okay. So her psycho mass murdering clown from hell is after my Harvey. Well, shit. Gotta actually do something about that.

"Fine. If Dent suddenly desires to kill your unpretty boy, I'll give you a heads up. Now, _what about that bomb threat_?"

She turned to me, serious and grim. I was deeply disturbed by all of this; Mary wasn't easily unsettled by her charges, and none of them had ever gotten her into such a state as this.

I wanted to ask her, _why so serious?_ But I figured that she'd probably dismember me if I did, so I held off. I like having all my limbs, and it's a pain in the ass to try to sew back your arms. Believe me, I should know.

"The party, that Wayne's throwing. He's showing up. He'll have a bomb as back up, but he won't use it if Batman shows up. He's _obsessed_ with him. That's—that's all I've got so far."

If I had a bottom lip right now, I'd be gnawing it. Well, technically I do, but when there's no flesh, it kinda takes the appeal all outta it. Rachel Dawes and Harvey Dent were a package deal. I'm not sure what Rach'd do if Harvey died (which he _won't—_because he's _my_ charge and I have professional pride, dammit) considering she'd been blasted by the fear toxin back in the day, so I have to assume that she's a wild card. Funness.

Mmm... Jonathan Crane... now _there_ was a sexy sexy piece of man meat.

I sighed. I've always been attracted to mentally unstable, highly intelligent, damn good-looking men. Mr. Scarecrow fit the bill perfectly. But it was more than that; a part of me felt genuine empathy for the man. So what if he'd tried to gas Gotham? After what he'd been through as a kid, the sheer hell most of his peers had forced onto him, hell, I'd want a little revenge too. And it's not like he'd started on _nice_ people; Arkham Asylum was, in fact, for the _criminally_ insane. So kudos to him for that. Oh, fine, he'd moved onto the helpless civilians but, c'mon, it was the friggin' _Narrows_. Most of them probably deserved it anyways.

I never said that I was a particularly sympathetic person.

_ The world begins and ends on the edge of a knife._

Funny, how true that statement is for the person who has the blade held to their throat.

I sighed, again. Rachel Dawes and Harvey Dent. Honestly, if I weren't dead already, those two would put me into an early grave. They just _had_ to get the Joker's attention. Well, okay, it was probably bound to happen in their line of work, but still. Now what do I do? There's only so much a ghost can accomplish, y'know. I always had an ace up my sleeve, but still...

I did not relish an encounter with Mary's Joker.

I'd had tough cases before. I'd—I'd had cases that nearly did me in. Nearly made me quit. My last case before Jackie boy, who was right before Dent--

Stop.

Don't.

Focus.

One deep, shuddering breath later (read as: mild hyperventilating), and I was back on track. Well, well, well. So, I needed to step up security, maybe subconsciously nudge (read as: mentally bash) a few cops' heads, and hopefully everything'd be hunky dory.

Or... not.

Probably.

... please. Shoot me.


	3. Chapter 3

MWUAHAHAHAHA!! ... I'm having way too much fun writing this. Hmm, almost forgot:

Disclaimer: Everthing in this that is copyrighted is not mine. I makes no monies. Everything not already copyrighted is MINE!! ALL MINE, MY OWN! MYYYY... PREEEECIIIIOOOOUUUUUSSSS!!

hacks up a lung

Anywhoosen, feel free to enjoy the next segment of _Hearts, Stars, and Horseshoes_. I promise, the title will, at some point, begin to make sense. ... As soon as I figure it out. XD I'm writing this as I go.

-- chucklingly,

RW

* * *

For the record, I'm not God.

In light of that hardly startling revelation, please let me point out that I am rather limited when it comes to the survival of my dearest (hahafuckingha) _Hahhvey_ Dent. Ergo, sometimes I'm forced to cringe and let the coin toss of fate decide whether or not he ducks.

Most times, though, I just get pissed.

You _really_ don't wanna piss off a guardian angel.

It's the party night, and right now I'm seriously debating on whether or not I need to take a human form. Mary has informed me, shakily I might add, that the Joker is hellbent on tearing Harvey Dent apart from the inside out to win the war for Gotham's dingy, scorched soul.

Over. My. Incorporeal. Body.

Worse comes to worse, possession is a possibility. If I could gain control of the maniac's mind for a minute, or even thirty seconds, I could stop all of this before the chaos climaxes much higher. Mary might kill me for it (irony, irony), but then again... He was wearing on her.

The only trouble with possession is, you see, the fact that I could destroy myself in the process.

We use possession only as a desperate, last-ditch attempt short of retaking human form, because it means that we're suppressing the host's consciousness and control. If it's not done right, if you're careless about it, then it can be mind-rape and shatter the host's _self_. Forever. It's permanent; no undoing it.

I somehow doubted that the Joker's deranged mind was that fragile, but that also meant that he would fight me. If he fought me, then I stood the chance of losing _my_ own _self_, my spirit, somewhere in-between my existence and his. I could be broken by this.

If it needed to be done.

If I decided to do it.

I'm not a nice person. I'll be honest, the thought of having my eternal soul fragmented into tiny pieces scares the _shit_ out of me. So it's for mainly selfish reasons that I don't want to attempt to possess the Joker. Besides, if he's _already_ possessed, then I'll be fighting a demon(s) and that is something I _never_ want to do again.

Nasty, nasty things.

I catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror, and quietly chuckle as nobody else notices a reflection of a person not physically in the room. Ah, high society at its finest. I looked the same, of course, but it was nice to have a chance to refresh my memory as to what I actually looked like. Mingling with the crowd, I saw a few Vices doing the same. Sneering at them, they sneered back, and that was that. Stupid sycophant little cretins. Always trying to drag people down, just one step up from demons...

I bare my teeth and force myself to look away.

I'm feeling nervous, the tight coiling in my gut is instinct yelling at me to _haul ass_. But I'm not running away, because Harvey is here, and Rachel is here, and the Joker is about to _be_ here. So I'm stuck between a rock and an inferno.

Luckily, I'm pretty crazy myself sometimes. When the time comes, I know what to do.

I have Bruce Wayne punch Harvey's lights out.

And then shove Rachel inside the broom closet with said mildly(?)-concussed White Knight.

I love it when a plan comes together.

When the Joker shows up, my Harvey and Rachel are all safely tucked away, Batman appears and beats the ever-loving shit out of the Joker (Mary protests half-heartedly), who drops some lady out of a window, Batman dives after her, and the day is saved.

Hooray.

Now for the nausea to pass.

I feel sick. I'd ghost-touched (hah, even more irony) the man's mind and... well... I was thinking of asking Gwen to move Mary to somebody else. Maybe Wayne, since he didn't have a guardian angel. This was an old argument we'd been having, us guardians walking the Gotham beat. Some argued that Alfred Pennyworth was just as good as one of us, and Lucius Fox was in for the bargain. Most of us felt that one of us should be protecting Wayne, considering he's Batman. If anybody needs looking after, it's that man.

That's what I think, anyways. Anyone who dresses up like a bat clearly has issues.

So that's one crisis diverted... for the time being, at least. Eventually, Harvey and the Joker are going to meet face-to-face. The only thing I can do is try to make it on my terms.

I have a feeling that that will just go down _wonderfully_.

Yay. Sarcasm. Ha. Ha. Fucking. Ha.

I'm tired.

It's not easy to wear a guardian angel out.

Apparently, though, it can, in fact, be done.

I should probably elaborate more on the infamous 'party scene', as it's beginning to be called. Sheesh. Everybody's a critic.

Then again, hindsight and all...

-cue flashback-

Blah, blah, freakin' blah. God, I'd forgotten just how much I hate triangles of the romance variety. So, my Harvey's terrified of, as Rachel so eloquently puts it, "the trust fund brigade." Well, good for him. Maybe the man has some sense of self-preservation after all. Or maybe, just _maybe_, common sense is rearing its head from the grave where it died somewhere in his early teens.

Bungee jumping indeed.

If anybody noticed the reflection of an average-looking girl in a plain black dress, nobody did a double take. Honestly, I'd rather be projecting jeans, but that might get people's attention. So I was a simply-dressed Nobody, capital N intended, because girls like me were dime a dozen until we pulled a gun and shot you in the head.

I don't hate rich people. To me, that's just as blind and bigoted as hating people for their looks, their family, or their race. It breathes of ignorance and stupidity, and I am many things, but ignorant and stupid (well... the last one can be debated at times) are not among them.

A guardian angel can't afford to be.

That doesn't mean I'm comfortable in these settings though.

So, here I am, nervous and far too intensely aware of everything going on around me and the ectoplasm (the undead form of adrenaline) is slamming through my being, and I've suddenly got the urge to giggle, loudly and hysterically. I doubt anybody would hear me, I don't think there's any Sensitives in the crowd, but it would still be best for me to keep a low profile.

It was, after all, a matter of lives and death, and the attempt to stop the latter from happening prematurely.

Or at all, really. I didn't want anybody to die.

... okay, maybe the Joker.

Fidgeting, I people-watched for a little while. Poor Harvey had that constipated look on his face that he got when he was feeling incredibly out of place and over-his-head (I hadn't seen the look since he had to give his acceptance speech as the new DA) and Rachel noticed too. They fit together, Rachel and Harvey, and Alfred saw it too. They way they looked at each other...

There is one thing that I never, ever mess with: true love.

You're probably surprised, scoffing, "she's a romantic? She's soft after all." I'm not. Really, I'm a bitch. Trust me on this.

But I don't mess with true love.

It's pointless, and only leads to trouble. True love to me is—is—sacred, holy, something that outsiders shouldn't _touch_, because for the people involved it's so truly fragile. I've seen true love, and the devastation it leaves behind. It's an irresistible force, in a universe of immovable objects. It alters and consumes in its totality. I've seen the effects of soulmates.

I feel myself blinking, and tear away from the memories. I have no right to them.

After twenty minutes have passed, instead of feeling slightly more relaxed, I'm more tense than ever. Everything hinges on what the Joker will do, and if there's one thing that I absolutely _hate_, it's feeling like things are out of my control. I'm too used to pulling the strings from the invisible sidelines, and it bothers me more than it should when I lose that advantage.

There are drawbacks to being dead.

I cringe when I see a woman agree to take a tumble with a man in hope for money. She doesn't have the waif look of an addict, and behind her I see a greed Vice hovering behind her. My blood boils, but I feel inextricably... melancholic, for a moment, because I know the downfall before her. The softest touch to her lifeline, and it unfolds before me like a roll of dirty cloth.

She will be dead before the middle of next year.

I stare at her, try to communicate mentally the _wrongness_ of what she's in, the shallowness of the life she's leading... but nothing breaks through the Vice's hold, and I've learned how to give up losing battles with dignity.

I turn and wander away. I've seen too much of the dirty side of the universe, known my own insignificance too well to fight the inevitable. I know the underbelly of the world, the starving and the desperate, the survivors, as well as I used to know my heartbeat.

That doesn't stop me from fighting losing battles.

Suddenly, in the middle of all this glamour and splendor... I feel old. Older than anybody should have a right to feel. All the lives catch up, all the lives you spend pouring energy into protecting, even when you know that they are destined to die.

So I screw with laying low, and start to chug a bottle of expensive champagne. Halfway through the bottle, I switch over to nursing it instead. Too much alcohol too fast can interfere with... I dunno, the wavelength I work in. Something like that. I never paid too much attention to transdimentional physics.

The whir of helicopter blades interrupts my somewhat gloomy thought processes, and I stand up. The effects of the alcohol melt off like water, because now I am _focused._ Bruce Wayne has just arrived, which means the Joker won't be far behind. My first encounter with him, I'll have to size him up pretty quickly, and take the fastest peek at his mind safety will allow.

My safety, of course, not his, because I'm a coward at heart and I don't really give a rat's ass about him.

When Bruce makes his speech about Harvey, I can see the accusation and darkened look in Rachel's eyes, but she doesn't get it. He really means it; he believes in Harvey Dent, because he so desperately needs something to believe in. Still the little boy lost in the alley, his parents dead at his feet...

That man needs a hero.

He goes out onto the balcony, face as tired as I feel, and Rachel follows him, righteous indignation apparent in the severe posture of her spine. Harvey panics, feeling like he's just been thrown to the sharks, a few bottom-feeders coming up to simper. He smiles, but I _know_ him, and they're just a little too wide, a little too bright, and I chuckle.

Harvey Dent is terrified.

Well, good for him. Meanwhile, I'm about to crap eagles.

Figuratively, of course.

Although... come to think of it, that'd be a great Halloween prank...

"We're tonight's entertainment! Now, who's seen Harvey Dent?"

My personal pain-in-the-ass has landed.

_You have got to be kidding me._

That's the first thing I think of when I see him; this rangy, matted mess of a man, this wannabe _clown_, is my own hell? _This_ is the _Joker_?

Then I see it. It hits me like a punch to the gut.

This man is more than dangerous, more than deadly.

This man is a force of nature.

I see it in the way he moves, like he's stalking across the floor. His quick strides eat up the room, a predatory grace in his steps, and the way he's hunched over doesn't fool me. The man is a giant in a lanky, lithe frame... and he knows it. I stay in his shadow, and the oily gasoline-like feel of it washes over me, a sick hug from the devil himself.

There is a sort of savage beauty that I cannot deny in the way he bares his yellowed teeth (... ew. Just ew.) like some sort of circus panther. His violence is held in check only because he wants it to be. The childish enthusiasm and energy he exudes hides a darkened genius.

My God. It's a little boy with bombs.

I shudder, and he misses a step. I suddenly grow very, very still, fading my existence on this plane out to only the barest _whiiiisper_, the tiniest _glimmmmmer..._

His rhythm resumes.

I forget that I don't breathe anymore, because I am now busy hyperventilating. Or trying to. Damn compulsive disorders.

Despite everything within me (read as: self-preservation is begging me to haul ass outta there), I let my fingers touch his matted, vaguely-green hair (okay, seriously—I used to dye my hair, _sell_ hair dye, and whatever he's using is on par of acidic kool-aid, I swear to God) and... _be._

It's—_wild_ inside his psyche. His mind works so fast, so feverishly planning and counter-planning and _what if we blow that up_ going through like a meteor shower that I feel dizzy. I remind myself to stay on the edge, the absolute utter peripheral of his thoughts to avoid discovery.

He stopped completely.

I eased my way out of his head, fading into nothing more than an afterthought in the life of the room, and watched with a steadily growing sense of dread.

"... I see we have a telepath in the crowd! A woman, by the subtle touch, or else a very careful man. Ooh, I wonder which it is? Come out, come out, wherever you are!" he cackled gleefully, rubbing his hands like a little boy who's just been told he gets to pick a present before his birthday to open. Packages, that's all we were to him; he wanted to shake us up, tear off the wrapping paper, and look inside to see if he could use whatever he found there.

I'm beginning to utterly loathe this man.

There is no sound in the room except a few fearful whimpers and the agitated shifting of well-dressed feet.

"_Oooooo-_kay. If the telepath doesn't step forward, then--" his arm strikes out and ensnares an old woman who, bless her soul, tries to stab him with jewel-encrusted knitting needles, "--then she dies. Thirty seconds. Tick tock."

... I'm going to die.

Again.

Behind the Joker, Mary is downing cocktails like they're going out of style, refusing to look at me. Oh yeah. Mary needs a transfer more than I need a vacation. Well... maybe not _that_ much, but still.

I sigh, very loudly, and it's just the barest exhale of breath in the room.

He catches it anyways.

"Mm? Could you be _in-vees-eeble_?" he taunted, sing-song, "because I can make things _disappear_!"

Mary choked on her bottle of tequila.

"Pencil... _magic trick_..." she whimpered.

I decided not to ask.

Bliss and ignorance, and all that.

I prepared myself for a phenomenally stupid move on my part.

I _manifested._

... God, I was going to have such a migraine from this later.

I'm sure you're probably wondering what manifestation is. No, it does _not_ have anything to do with parasites in any way. To make a long explanation very short, I become visible. Not solid (hopefully not sober either, because if I did, then shit, I'm screwed), but kinda like those nifty holograms you see in Star Wars. (the original movies; except for _Revenge of the Sith,_ the prequels sucked balls—and not the sexy kind, but the sweaty nasty hairy ones) I'm there, but I'm _not_.

"Ooooohhhh... I am the ghost of this peeeeenthoooouuuuuse..." I wailed theatrically, rolling my eyes and totally ruining whatever I effect I might've had going.

There are several collective gasps, a few of the less courageously inclined faint, and the Joker actually looks somewhat taken aback. Alfred stares at me like I'm some cobweb he's just discovered: slightly mortified, vaguely disturbed, and highly perturbed at the situation in general.

The Joker burst out into hyena-laughter, and it echoes eerily in the shocked silence.

I stick my tongue out at him.

"Well, hel-_lo_, _beautiful_!" he slicked back his hair in a way that made me gag a little. "This is just perfect! What a twist!" he chuckled. "A beautiful woman who's already dead. Oh, you an' me, we're gonna get on just _fiiiiii-neh_."

"Yeah, like a hydrophobiac who can't swim and a large lake. Just _swimmingly_," I replied dryly.

"A sense of humor too!" he howled delightedly, "I like that!"

"Then you're going to _love _me," a rhino farte—er, Batman said.

I whisked myself out of sight, watched in darkly gleeful satisfaction as El Broody Bat-Billionaire beat the shit out of the Joker. Then he (Joker, not Batman) grabbed a poor gold-digger (no _way_ that Prada purse was real), dropped her, and skedaddled. Batman rescued her, Harvey and Rachel finally kicked the door down to find that they'd _completely missed_ all of the excitement, and now the Joker's beady sadistic little mind could focus on me, ghost-girl, and hopefully, if there was _any_ justice at all in the universe, let Harvey (and consequently Rachel) fade into the background.

... The universe is, in fact, cruelly unjust.

I demand some Tylenol.


	4. Chapter 4

Well, this was a little bit more serious than I intended, but I've read humour stories that mix it rather well, so hopefully I can pull it off. Damn ninjas. (only readers of my other stories, particularly _Flameheart--_which is not on this site, but on deviantart--will understand the reference) Also, Kit, Kara--cameos from _Flameheart_ **will** be in this story!! I couldn't help but add Karasu in. Please, relax and enjoy!!

* * *

"If anybody needs me," I called, "I'll be in my trailer."

Stares answered me.

Grabbing my head, I'm not gonna lie it hurt like a motherfucker, I wanted to fade into blissful darkness and silence for awhile. A few people, I think maybe it was Jim Gordon's guardian, touched me on the shoulder and asked me if I was okay.

No.

I'm not.

I'm really not fucking okay.

I've just been... shit, the Joker scares me. Scratch that, he _terrifies_ me. The sad thing is, if he weren't the spawn of Shelob the man-eating giant spider and Satan, he could've been... great. Noble. A powerful and charismatic leader, someone who could've set the world on fire.

Well... he might just do it anyways, but a little bit more literally than I meant.

Or at least Gotham.

And he's hellbent on tearing apart a man I'd watched over since he'd been born. I'd watched his first steps, his first words, I'd seen him when his heart got broken for the first time, I'd been there when his overwhelming passion for justice spurred him into politics, I'd been there when he'd fallen head-over-heels in love with the singular Rachel Dawes...

I'd be there when he died. Heaven help me, he'll be ninety-four and it'll be peacefully in his sleep, Rachel curled up next to him with flowers in her hair.

Fine. So the Joker was going to destroy the man I'd sworn to give my last ounce of existence protecting. That just meant that I was going to have to destroy him first.

Assuming, of course, that that could actually be _done_.

Brooding, I was left in relative peace for a few hours, going over what options I had again and again. No matter how cynical I might be, no matter how much of a bitch I am, no matter what I've seen in this world—and oh, what I've seen—the loss of human life sickens me. Isn't there enough against us without us killing each other? Why do people _do_ this to other people, people they could've met on the streets, been friends with...?

_The color drains, everything around me black and white, and I am back in 1940's Europe, ravaged by war and hatred, and the smell of burning bodies is suffocating..._

"Hey."

I shook myself, and Gwen's morose face stared back at me.

Great. If it's not little miss sunshine herself.

"Come to gloat?" I snapped. "You said that I'd come across a case I couldn't handle by myself. You said that I'd have to beg before you'd help me."

She paused to think for a moment.

"Yeah, that about sums it up," she nodded.

Fun trivia: Gwen and I fight. All the time. You know those two people who bicker and fuss at each other constantly, but that just proves how close they actually are? Yeah. That's not us. We genuinely, honest-to-God hate each other. Our fights just prove that we cannot stand the presence of the other.

See, Gwen is—somehow—in charge, more or less, of us assigned to Gotham. The two of us have been butting heads ever since I came here to tackle Harvey. I don't like her, she doesn't like me. End of story. We'll work together when we have to—and do it well, I have to give us both credit for that—but we avoid each other as much as possible for the sake of peace and our sanity.

"_She's jealous of you," Mary muttered to me. I raised an eyebrow._

"_Well, obviously. I mean, I'm **me**, after all."_

_Mary rolled her eyes, and little Karasu piped up, all grins._

"_Betcha don't know why!" she trilled cheerfully. "It's cuz she was supposed to Harvey's guardian, but they asked you to be on the case instead and got you transferred to here she was Thomas Wayne's guardian but then Chill came along and the higher ups gave her the cold shoulder haha I just made a funny even though I didn't mean it and are you going to finish your coffee?"_

_I stared at Karasu incredulously. That girl can talk faster and longer than anybody in existence._

"_How the hell did she manage to screw **that** case up so damn badly? The Wayne case was a fiasco! A nightmare! The League of Shadows is gonna just eat this up. Damn Henri."_

_Karasu frantically made some violent slashing movements at her neck, so naturally the woman who already hated me was standing behind me and heard the—Entire. Fucking. Thing._

"_Joe Chill was an unexpected and random factor," she spoke icily, voice tight and teeth gritted together._

"_A guardian has to be prepared for chaos. You should have known that the little boy would be terrified of the bats," I snapped back._

_I didn't hate the woman, not then at least. It's just that I hate it when a guardian's sloppy, when their work is substandard. Lives depend on us, and so many had depended on the Waynes. Their loss, the ramifications it would have for the future generations, would be devastating. I know that she's been doing this a lot longer than I have, but maybe that was the problem. I'd known guardians who got burned out, who got so frazzled and tired that they just decided to rest in peace for the rest of eternity._

_Unfortunately, I'm so neurotic that retiring for me is a moot point. I'd be so bored that ten-to-one odds I'd piss off everybody around me, force them to make me be reborn, endure life all over again, until my poor soul got so worn that I ended up disappearing all together._

_No. Much better to mess with lowly mortals instead._

"Well, guess what? _I don't need you._ I can do this all by me onesies. Go haunt somebody else, Delani," I growled back.

She sniffed, ignoring my tone. I guess at 5 feet, I'm not that threatening. That is, not until I've decided to kill you because you've _pissed me off so damn much_. Then, there's usually running and screaming, sometimes begging, I dunno for sure. Gets kinda hazy after the first intestine's pulled out.

... I did warn you that I wasn't a nice person.

"When Harvey Dent's blown halfway to hell and back, Rachel's dead at your feet, and the Joker is laughing at it all—lemme know so I can say 'I told you so.' Good night," she laughed darkly.

Yelling obscenities for awhile at her disappearing (literally) back, I finally died off. I wrapped my arms around my legs and did something I haven't done for quite a few lives.

I cried.

I let the tears flow out of me, the bitterness and yes, a tinge of despair, leaving me feel hollowed out and empty inside. I'd bitten off more than I could chew, and was in very real danger of choking. Harvey, the man he was now, was going to die and be warped into something hideous, something evil.

"_You either die a hero or live long enough to see yourself become the villain."_

Either or. A or B. Door number one or door number two.

What about third options? Maybe there's a different path; it's slender as wire, winding between lives like a silver thread, but it's there, bright and shining. If I could find that path... if I could walk the razor edge of it... Maybe nobody would die after all.

Roughly wiping away my tears, I stood up. Blowing my nose into my sleeve (a little ectoplasm never killed anybody... yet), I forced-jumped. Harvey was sleeping at his desk, snoring away like he did when he was ten, Rachel coming over the manhandle him onto the couch. It was a peaceful, domestic little scene that made me want to cry all over again. Then I felt steel inside of me, my oath to protect these two lovers coming back to me.

"_As guardian, I swear to do all in my power to protect my charge's life and happiness, from birth until death. I will smooth the road before him, comfort him in the dark, and hold his hand when he is dying. Upon my own immortal soul do I swear that I will never forsake this sacred vow."_

That's right. _Smooth the road._ What do you smooth a road with? Well... Actually, I don't really know, but I've seen concrete smoothed out with a shovel.

Time to do some digging.


	5. Chapter 5

This whole chapter was based off of one of Harvey Dent's last lines in _TDK: "... if you knew what I had lost..."_ And that got me thinking. Rachel, certainly. But what if she had been pregnant? It wouldn't be a stretch of the imagination in the least. Losing the love of his life _and_ his unborn child? That'd unhinge even the most mentally stable men on the planet. C'mon, _nobody_ else on this site has thought that? Nobody wondered about the double-meaning behind that line??

As always, please enjoy and lemme know what you think! There's a confrontation of the explosive nature between our little guardian angel/ghost and the Joker, which should be _quite interesting_ to say the least. And other people enter the story!! YAAAAAY!! Although I'm rather fond of ghost-girl's dialogues... Any scene in italics is a flashback to other people she's haunted, just so ya know. :3

I still can't believe nobody's written pregnant!Rachel yet, that I've found...

-- disbelievingly,

RW

* * *

Oh, eww. Eww. Just—_gross_!

The Joker picks his nose.

I'm sorry, what do women _see_ in him?! He's an insane mass murdering clown with zero empathy for anyone and no respect at all for human life—his own included. And his hygiene skills were pretty much nonexistent. I've been watching him for about two days now, and no shower, no teeth-brushing, and—this is disgusting—no _toilet paper._

Yeah. Get a good mental picture of that. Keep it there for awhile.

Running for the bathroom now?

_Funness._

"Mary, _honestly_, the man doesn't _deserve_ a guardian! Quit the case, drop it! Let it be. Let him fall to fate. The man will land on his feet every time, I'll bet. ... Or maybe his head. That would explain a lot," I pondered.

Mary, absolutely knockered, grunted from the bottles of absinthe surrounding her. I raised an eyebrow, grabbing a bottle to chug a bit down. She raised her head up slightly, just enough for her bloodshot eyes to be visible from the table, and regarded me blearily.

"He's going to win, you know. He always does."

I stiffened.

"No. No, he doesn't," I stated quietly.

She gave a bitter laugh.

"He does. Every damn time," she dry-sobbed.

I stared up at the stained, cracked ceiling for a long time while she let it out. I didn't comfort her, and that either made me human or a monster. Or both. Sometimes it was hard to tell between the two.

"Nobody wins all the time. Everybody loses eventually."

"_RUN!"_

_Out of time. Always, always a heartbeat shy..._

"We all lose," I sighed again, heavily this time.

She gagged a little, drinking the alcohol too fast.

"But he's a _brilliant_ loser," she whispered.

I clenched my fists, my eyes narrowing of their own accord.

I'm told that I look like a badger trying to pee and coming up with some difficulty when I do that.

"Y'know what? _So am I._"

* * *

Harvey, Harvey, Harvey. Please, for the _love of me_, watch the _goddamn road_!

"Harvey, do we have the briefs in...?" Rachel muttered, pawing through the papers and looking like she needed a cup of coffee.

"They're in the bag," he said tersely, biting off the words like tough meat, "Rachel..."

There was something in the tone of his voice, something real and desperate and anguished, that made both of us snap our heads up to stare at him. I had a feeling that I knew what he was referring to, and sunk down into the backseat.

This was _not_ going to be pretty.

"... Harvey?" Rachel asked softly, eying him warily.

His knuckles turned white on the steering wheel.

"I saw the wrapper," he whispered.

Oh. Yeah. This was definitely going under the "not fun" category _real_ fast.

"Harvey..." she mouthed his name, and the love and longing in it was enough to make me wince. Rachel, Rachel, scourge of the underworld and the most important person in Gotham. Who didn't know it. So many men's sanity hangs on you, Miss Dawes...

"Rachel... what was it?" he gritted his teeth, grief in his eyes and voice.

She didn't answer for a long time, and his driving eventually became calmer, less erratic. He quietly, patiently, waited for her answer—and he always would, I realized. He would wait for her forever.

"Yes."

She was looking straight at him now, tears bright in her eyes like diamonds, but there was _steel_ there; strength and vulnerability walked side by side in Rachel Dawes's soul, and I admired her for that more than I could ever say. Believe me when I say that she is one of a kind.

"Oh God," he wept.

Rachel murmured soothing nothings to him, talking him through maneuvering off the road. He cried like a baby over the steering wheel, great sobbing heaves, and she was there for him every moment.

It's times like these that I feel sick and wrong. I am the worst and most depraved of all voyeurs, the most inhuman of peeping toms. I have no right to this moment, and I know it.

"Yes, Harvey. _Yes,_" she whispered fiercely, desperately trying to convey something to him, something profound and serious and _life altering_.

Harvey, bless his soul, caught it.

"... _yes_-yes?" he demanded, wild hope causing him to tremble.

She gave him a brilliant, beaming smile that started out hesitant then grew into reckless joy and abandon.

"_Yes._"

He let out a whoop (still the little boy after all...), eyes burning like twin suns. His smile could have lit up the night, and Rachel was glowing like a star...

_She was glowing, her smile matching his in brilliance and utter rapture. The fragility of their love was not diminished by knowledge of it; rather, it was enhanced._

_He watched her face, as if memorizing it, as if it was the last time—the only time—he'd ever really **see** it. She didn't know it, but she was crying, and each one was like a drop of light itself._

"_I love you, Lee," she whispered, and it was the same way one said goodbye._

"_My beautiful Stone Dragon," he murmured, "my bright and shining star. How you glow."_

_His eyes and tone were awed affection, the newfound love an old song between them, a dance they had known the steps to since their first meeting._

"_Goodbye," he mouthed the word to her, heart breaking if he'd had the time to spare._

_She took his hand in hers, gripping it tightly, and beamed._

"_Goodbye," she said fiercely, the word a promise and a battlecry. In that moment, she turned their imminent death into something beautiful and strong._

_Goodbye..._

I let them be for awhile. I was intruding where I had no right to be, even in death, and quietly stepped through the car to lean up against it. I wave distractedly at the security camera (where no doubt there's a fat guard snoozing over donut crumbs), just a lift of my arm and a quick twitch of the hand. I'm thinking, fast and hard. (ha. ha. All the jokes've been done, people.)

Rachel was pregnant.

Rachel was pregnant with Harvey's child.

Rachel was pregnant with Harvey's child and the Joker was after them.

Rachel was pregnant with Harvey's child and the Joker was after them and my existence had suddenly just gotten much more difficult.

If Rachel died now, Harvey would be losing his soulmate and his unborn child. He would be losing the entire course of his future, and I had no doubts that he would survive it. He would be ripped in half (what was the nickname from the precinct? Two-Face?), and the good in him that drew people would be lost forever. _He_, who he was _now_, would be gone.

So then, this was it. I would singlehandedly determine the entire course of Gotham's history and the lives of the people I was (incredibly reluctantly) rather fond of when they weren't pissing me off and giving me heart attacks. There was only so much I could do as a ghost, even one as brilliant and talented as myself.

Ha. Ha. Ha.

Just a little more digging, and my new grave will be waiting for me.

How comforting.

I've contacted Mary (who looks haggard, and that's the nice version) and she understands. Hates it, but understands. What I'm about to do is the last thing we guardians do; it's our ultimate ace and our greatest sacrifice. I don't use the term lightly; please understand what this means for us.

For _me_.

Gwen, for once the antagonism missing from her, is serious and grave. Asking her is only a formality, mostly an empty one, but I do it anyways. I may need her held, in the end, after all. Better to bury the grudge with us somewhere other than in my back.

The pain is overwhelming, and I scream for millenia before I fall to the filthy, diseased streets of Gotham in comfortable well-worn jeans. Some Vans on my feet, and a t-shirt for a band I haven't even listened to since before I died, and nothing else.

I have just taken human form.

Ow. I think I broke a nail.

... yep. I hope I don't get tetanus.


	6. Chapter 6

Sorry about the wait for the update, but life's been meh and I tried to make this chapter longer to make up for it! Anywhoo, Ashen-Rose, Ameko (Desert.Moon? Is that your name here?), I'm working on _Flameheart_ too, so hopefully it'll be finished and up by middle of next week. Probably not before then, because I've got a sociology test coming up, and if I make all A's or B's on my tests, I get to be excused from the finals!! OMG! ISN'T THAT _AMAZING?!_

-- hates tests --

Mwuahaha. Pissed!Joker is so much fun to write. Pissed!ghost-girl is kickass, gotta say. I'm pretty sure she's not a Mary-Sue because she doesn't give a rat's ass about 99.9 percent of the population, some of her own charges included. Heheh.

The song is _Our Farewell_ by my **favorite band of all time** Within Temptation. Seriously, check out their _Silent Force_ album. _Our Farewell_ is from their _Mother Earth _album, which is older. Anyways, kick up your feet, grab some popcorn, and enjoy!!

-- grinningly,

RW

Well.

I'm starving.

Huh. Haven't had _that_ feeling in awhile. How... human it is. Well, the best way to solve the issue is to grab something greasy, so I grab a slice of pizza and keep power-walking. Damn, wish I had my iPod so I could have some tunes. I could really use something to rock out to right now.

I try materializing my iPod, but no such luck. Dammit. Guess the last of my abilities in that area are gone. Distantly, I hear music wafting over the pizza vendor's cheap cd boombox as I munch on the really crappy pizza.

_Sweet child, you worry too much, my child, see sadness in your eyes... you are not alone in this life, although you might think that you are... So sorry your world is tumbling down, I'll watch you through these nights... rest your head and go to sleep, because my child this is not our farewell... this is not our farewell..._

Oh. Whoa. That brings back memories. I allow myself to reminisce for a moment, until the song ends. When I go on, I feel better than I have in a long, long time. I feel more grounded, more human, more _alive_ now. Because I have a mission, a purpose; quiet energy thrums through me.

Let's bring a little chaos to the streets.

"Hey there, _chica_, whatcha doin' in this part of town, eh?" a rat-like thug crept from the shadows of the alley. His fingers twitched over a switchblade, and his smile was a little nervous and warped.

Oh look, how cute. The little prick thinks he's intimidating me.

"Okay, there's two ways this can go down. I can play nice, and you tell me everything—and I do mean _everything—_I wanna know, or I can be naughty and beat the shit out of you and you tell me everything I wanna know. So, which do you want it to be?" I sighed, growing irritated.

He laughed.

He. _Fucking._ **Laughed**. At. _Me_.

He's going to pay. Dearly.

"I warned you," I muttered.

Ducking down, I swept my leg and he fell with a shocked "oomph!" that quickly turned into a pained "erk" as I slammed his face into the concrete. Sitting on his back, I twisted his arm behind him until I heard the bones grinding together. Ooh, that's gotta hurt.

"Now, here's what I wanna know. _Where is the Joker_?" I asked sweetly.

He whined, sweating profusely. I wrinkled my nose at the sour smell of him, but tightened my grip. He gave a scream, and I was confused.

Oh. _Snap_. Right. Gotcha.

"I'm not—I'm not crossing the goddamn _Joker_, lady!"

Sighing, I reached over with my hand not holding his now-broken arm and dug my fingernails into his earlobes. Giving a high-pitched squeal at the pain (oh dear, was I drawing blood? Eww), he gasped and protested for a few minutes before coming to his senses and giving in.

"Okay—_okay_! Look, _loca chica_, he's in the warehouse district, the Russian's side of town! _Get the hell offa me!_" he howled.

"See? That wasn't so bad," I replied pleasantly, walking over him to continue to the warehouse district. Pocketing his knife, I cheerfully flicked it open and closed to see how it reacted. At least it was in pretty good condition, but I still need a few more things before I face the living incarnation of the clown from It.

Jogging slightly, marveling in the feeling of _muscles_, I noticed a few gang members staring at me, since I was dressed in casual, normal clothes and looking absolutely out of place in the grungy, dangerous part of Gotham. (though, really, didn't that describe pretty much _all_ of this hellhole?) I ignored them, which made them ease off and leave me alone.

Or maybe it was the big grin on my face. Maybe they'd had enough of smiling freaks lately.

That could be it.

I practically skipped into the dimly lit store that smelt strongly of smoke. I choked for a bit, eyes watering, then I recovered myself. So much for being confident and intimidating.

"Yes? How can I help you?" an older Pakistani man came out at the tinkle of the bell on the door. His smile was warm and sincere, but hesitant, as if wondering why in the world a girl like me was in a place like this.

"Hi," I waved, beaming, "I'd like the shotgun, the .9 millimeter, the grenades, the silly string, lots and lots of bullets for the guns, um—sorry, lemme see—" I twisted my mouth, ticking off what I'd ordered so far, "the liferaft, the parachute—the blue one, please, it's the prettiest—the taser, the hunting knives, the machete, and—_oh my God, a katana! Yes!_ I _definitely_ need that! The safety pins, the paper-clips, the duffel bags, the rolling suitcase, the—holy crap, is that a _Jeep_?! That's coming with mama. Um, lemme see, lemme see—and the shovel. I have a feeling that I'm going to need it before I'm done. That's it, I think."

He stared at me, opened his mouth to speak, and then closed it again, slowly shaking his head.

"You know what? I don't want to know. Not in a city like this. Cash or credit?" he sighed, moving to bag the items for me.

I patted my pockets, getting the brute's wallet out and peering into it. Hmm, a bulge of Franklins, would that be enough? _Holy shit, these were thousand-dollar bills!_ I didn't even know they _made_ these!

"You know what?" I grinned like an idiot, mimicking him, "Keep it. The whole thing. You seem like a nice guy, so go to Metropolis. See a few sights, close the shop for a few days."

He stared at me again, and nodded.

"I think I will. Scarecrow, well—at least he was _human_ once. I don't think this Joker _ever_ was. I'm an old man, and I miss my grandchildren. It'll be good to leave Gotham for awhile."

His eyes met mine, and I smiled, more gently now. Once a guardian, always a guardian. He got my warning and would soon hightail it outta here. One less civilian to be worried about.

Basically, I just tossed everything into the back of the Jeep. It started to rain a little, so thank _God_ it was a hard top. I didn't want to have to deal with squelching shoes on top of everything else I had to get done. You just _cannot_ be intimidating in shoes that _squelch_.

Turning on the radio, I was surprised the ancient thing still worked. The static was horrible, the songs were even worse, and I lamented that the pawn shop hadn't had an mp3. Eventually I just turned the damn thing off, content to listen to the pattering of rain on the hood. I was pretty sure that I had everything I was going to need now, all the my aces laid out on the table. This was all I had left. If it failed...

I didn't want to think of that now. I already thought of that enough.

I pulled up into a parking garage in the bad part of town, and I sighed, trudging over to look into a derelict warehouse. Sure enough, there were clown minions (I say it again: Gotham city is the place where every nutcase in the universe comes to pee and blow things up, I swear) huddled up inside. No sign of the Head Cheese himself, but he'd get the message soon enough.

I'd stopped along the way and bought some gasoline and fuses, and a box of waterproof matches _and_ a lighter or two for good measure. Can't hurt to be too prepared. I put a few firecrackers into bags filled with paper-clips and safety pins, and lit them. Driving off to a little ways down the street and parking with the windows rolled down, I was soon rewarded with explosions and screaming. A few battered clowns crawled out from the buildings to be crushed by the collapsing structure, and I hummed to myself.

Ahh. Gotta love shrapnel.

Merrily torching the rest of it, all it took was just a teensy bit of gasoline and the flames ate the wood like a fat kid eats cake. I'd dutifully checked for survivors—there were none—and kinda sent a vague sort-of prayer for their souls. There were going to die eventually, and while I _hated_ death, I'd done them a favor. Most had died instantly, rather than the excruciating death the Joker had planned for them.

The guilt could consume me later.

Driving around, I was the perfect image of a bored twenty-something in a car that looked—and sounded—like it was an ancient dying beast, a girl just minding her own business.

Who was currently plotting the downfall of the Joker.

Heaven help Gotham.

* * *

I drove around for awhile longer, waiting until nightfall. Sure enough, the Joker kidnapped some reporter but ended up letting her go so she could release the video. I watched it from a phone I'd, ah, _borrowed_.

"This is S-Summer Gleason, and this v-video was, uh, issued from the, um, Joker himself," she whispered shakily, pale as a sheet in front of the cameras, looking shaken.

Wonder what he'd found in _that_ particular package. Nothing of interest, or else he'd never've let her go.

"Goooood _mor-ning_, _Goth_am! Somebo-dy's been _baaaad_, and wrecked my little _dolls_!" he cackled mirthlessly into the camera, waving his arms around like a crack addict. "And while I just _loooove_ some kay-oss, it has just _slightly __**pissed me off**_," he erupted into a low roar.

So, can't take a bit of his own medicine? Typical.

"I'm giving the person until midnight or I blow up a house-pee-tal," he giggled moronically, and I rolled my eyes. Geeze. What an original idea.

"Call Gotham Central News and I'll call it off-uh. Toodles!" he waved, looking for all the world like he was having a seizure in his shoulder.

Propping my feet up on the steering wheel (ahh, the joys of being five feet tall), I watched the news conference from earlier today. Harvey, Harvey, always the hero. Batman, my lovely rotund _ass_. Rachel was going to shit _kittens_ over this. Not that I didn't admire the balls it took to claim to be a hated vigilante, but seriously—did he _try_ to make things busier for me?!

"I'll bet they're transferring him to County," I muttered, already having Yahoo! Maps figure out the route for me. Once I had that done, I dialed the number for the television station.

"This is Summer Gleason, where we have our first caller!"

Sure, like every two-bit whackjob hadn't already called to take credit. Right. And I was a flying monkey.

"May I ask what your name is?" she asked breathlessly.

"Um, _no_. To protect my family," ha! There's a laugh, "I think I'll keep that to myself."

"Hold on, we have another caller—it's the _Joker_!" a technician yelled out, horrified.

Gee whiz, what a surprise. Get some cake and make it a party.

"Let's see if it's _rah_-ly you, sweet cheeks."

"I'm on _safety pins and paper clips_ with terror!" I snorted into the phone, smirking.

There was a pause at the other end.

"Nice work, girlie."

I could feel my right eye twitching. I _hate_ being called girlie. Most people who call me that usually end up dying rather gruesome deaths.

"Sure thing, Bozo," I snapped nastily.

He just giggled inanely, and once again I wondered how in the seven levels of hell this _monster_ ever appealed to women. He rambled on a little bit about having other knights to take care of, but I shouldn't feel worried because he'd be after me too, so I should wait like a good little girl.

Yeah, right. As if.

Slamming the phone down, I figured it'd be better to walk. I had about an hour or so left, plenty of time to enjoy the cool night air that the rain had mercifully washed clean of any lingering putrid odors. Shouldering my supplies, I took my time going down the levels of the garage to make sure I didn't trip and break my neck.

To my utter shock (and delight), I saw Dr. Jonathan Crane aka Scarecrow completing a deal on the ground level. Damn, but he looked good in that worn suit of his. He heard me, which was rare because usually I scared the _crap_ out of people—I tended to walk really quietly (not on purpose) and surprise them, turning to look at me. Raising an elegant eyebrow, he motioned his accomplices away and they got into the nondescript white van.

To my horror, I heard distant gunshots.

"_Shit_! I should've had more time!" I cursed, sprinting off.

He watched me go, eyes curiously enigmatic, and went back to whatever it was he was doing. I sped back, and he jumped in surprise as I grabbed his face in my hands to stare him up in the eyes.

"You are _beautiful_. You understand me? Don't ever let anybody tell you different. You are _beautiful_," I stated fiercely, before running as fast as my legs could carry me. He stared after me in shock, mouth hanging slightly open—and oh, what I could do with _that_!

The Joker was, of course, firing at the _armored car_ that my Harvey was being carried in. Idiot. Both of them. I was out in the open, where I knew the whole "ooh, big fast chase scene" would end up. Boys and their toys, it doesn't matter the age, it always remains the same.

Sure enough, Mr. I-Have-Deep-Emotional-Scarring-So-I-Dress-Up-Like-a-Bat-to-Fight-Crime Wayne was riding along on his Batcyle, which was actually cool. The Batcyle, not the angst-riddled bored billionaire.

He couldn't hit the Joker, which was a crying shame, and I tensed when the Joker beat the Kevlar-wrapped concussed man. Thank God for Jim Gordon. If anybody asks me—which nobody does—I think that Jim Gordon is the redeeming grace of this city. He's good, through and through, and this city needs good men desperately.

The Joker lashed out, Gordon's gun flying out of his hand, but I was prepared.

I shot the motherfucker with the fucking shotgun.

He screamed, skidding a few feet with the sheer _force_ of the impact. I was pleased to note the absolute mess that was his left abdomen so much that I fired again, aiming for his head so I could end this once and for all.

"Don't," a steel vice wrapped around my hand, "don't be like him."

"Honey," I sighed, "you just ruined my good mood. Bruce Wayne, just _go home_," I muttered wearily. I needed to be leaving soon anyways; the ambulance and police sirens were starting to wail too close for comfort.

Patting Batman on the shoulder, I grabbed my things and hauled ass. Throwing them into the Jeep, I sped back towards the precinct, watching as Detective Ramirez led out Rachel Dawes. So I did what I did best—I bitchslapped her, told Rachel to go to Bruce's penthouse or else I'd tell reporters she was carrying Harvey's child, and then congratulated her. Dazed, she drove herself off after I reassured her that I'd _personally_ make sure that Harvey got back to her safe and sound. And in one piece.

Slipping into the police station was ridiculously easy, considering all the commotion and chaos. However, it seemed as though Wertz had already left with Dent. _Fuck!_

I paused in front of the Joker's cell, far enough away to avoid suspicion. He was sitting calmly, like the stillness before the storm, and he caught me looking.

"Hello, girlie," he greeted me quietly, bandages tightly wound around his wound.

"You're not having him," I told him bluntly, mouthing the words more than actually saying them.

"Oh?" he gave the ghost of a smile. "Aren't I?"

His eyes narrowed, and he leaned forward a bit to get a better look at me.

"Ghost-girl," he laughed softly, wearily. "Harvey Dent's guardian angel," he shook his head.

I flinched. That was closer to the truth than I _ever_ wanted him to know.

"And don't you forget it," I muttered, sighing.


	7. Chapter 7

Hello, all! Well, the Joker and ghost-girl _finally_ have a snarkfest! -- loves it -- Mwuahaha. Anyways, sorry for the long delay, but hopefully this chapter will make up for it! I'm pretty sure there's only about five or less chapters left before it's finished, then I'll be going onto a sequel. -- ... cricket, cricket... -- -- sweatdrops --

As always, please kick back and enjoy!! Oh, as a sidenote: to the anonymous reviewer, I promise that, eventually, the whole 'time not being linear' will make sense, with ghost-girl giving her typical explanation. If you like this story, leave a review to lemme know!!

-- bouncily,

RW

* * *

It is official: the Joker is my personal pain-in-the-ass.

He leaned forward, a thoughtful smile on his face. His dark eyes were like pools of black inkiness, green fire glinting in them as though from a far-off distance.

Damn. Where the hell did that come from? Maybe it was that pizza.

"So... you were _dead_. I felt you in my head—how did you like that, by the way?—and yet here you are, _in the flesh_... and what _lovely_ flesh it is," he leered.

I stuck my tongue out at him. Childish, yet effective.

He chuckled, and I rolled my eyes. What a _clown._

"You, sir," I stated in a heavy Southern accent, "are a horse's ass."

"I've been called worse," he nodded agreeably, "but you're still not answering me."

"And I'm not going to," I sniped back.

He regarded me for a moment, eyes fathomless, and I saw Mary sitting as far away from him in the cell as possible. I didn't pity her; I'd told her to drop the case. He saw me staring, and turned. His lips quirked into an amused puzzlement.

"Who's there? Another _guardian angel_?" he smirked.

I managed to keep from starting, just barely kept skeptically impassive, but he must've noticed me paling. His perverse smile grew even wider, both his mouth and his scars seeming to swallow his face except for those burning eyes of his.

Little bastard.

"Ohh. _Now_ I get it. You're, ah, _really_ his _guardian angel_, aren't you? Except, not so divine, girlie," he muttered, "I can smell the sin on you. No angel would _murder_ my minions so _ruthlessly_."

"I don't handle threats with kid gloves," I shrugged, "I do what has to be done."

He started to clap slowly, eyes lighting up with approval.

Screw the psychopath's opinion of me. I bite back.

"What a _remorseless_ little thing you are," he whispered conspiratorially, coming to lean against the bars. "Why, you're a girl after my own _heart_."

"Not that you have one," I muttered back. "I didn't say that I was without remorse," I said softly.

"Oh, not another woman who _cares_," he sighed, throwing up his hands, "but can you tell me why we're having this conversation in the middle of a police precinct full of Gotham's _finest_ who would just _love_ to tear me to pieces?" he demanded silkily.

Yeah, come to think of it, the officers weren't even giving us a second glance.

_Mary_.

"_I'm shielding you, but I can't last forever," _she snapped.

"Fine, fine," I mumbled, "I getcha. Mind if I shoot him? Just once more?"

"_YES."_

"Spoilsport," I accused, but put my gun back anyways. "Okay, Joker, where's Wertz taken my Harvey?"

"Wouldn't _you_ like to know," he cackled wildly.

"Wouldn't _you_ like to stay alive?" I smiled, bringing out a can of silly string.

"You're going to _silly string_ me to death?" he laughed uproariously.

I smiled sweetly.

"Sweetie, didn't anybody ever tell you how _flammable_ silly string is?"

His laughter ebbed off.

"You'd do it?"

I brought out my lighter.

"You would."

"Like _hell_ I would, laughing the whole time," I muttered darkly.

He giggled delightedly.

"Girlie, you _really are_, ah, a _kindred spirit_," he breathed huskily, dark eyes regarding me with curious intensity.

That particular statement _really_ didn't make me feel too cheerful with myself.

"One difference," I said tightly, restraining my rage.

"Oh?" he raised his eyebrow, taunting me.

"You do all of _this_," I waved my arms randomly, "to _destroy_. I do what I do to _protect_."

He gave out a bark of jaded laughter.

"Girlie, it all depends on what you're trying to _protect_," he mocked. "When you find the answer to that, you'll be surprised at just how alike we are. Drop all of your _rules_, it's the only sane way to live."

"For a man who's sanity I think's pretty much nonexistent, that's a laugh—the bad _punch line_ to an even worse _joke_," I muttered. "I'll let you in on a little secret, though, Joker," I leaned forward conspiratorially. Humoring me, he leaned forward patronizingly, all eager.

"_I don't have any rules_," I whispered, smirking, as his nonexistent eyebrows shot towards his oily matted _mess_ of a head. "Not any that _you_ would _understand_, anyways."

He sighed, shaking his head.

"Y'know, girlie? _I think we're the same_. On the inside, you shine in chaos like _me_. It's where you do _your best work_," he insinuated.

I sighed, and shook my head, imitating him perversely.

"Joker, you're a man without _vision_," oh, I was signing my death warrant for this, "either everybody's a poor _pissant_ mortal, or exactly like you with a few varying shades of black. Maybe people are just people—good, bad, or _ugly_."

"Cheap shot," he shrugged, but I saw the rage beginning to build in his eyes.

Well, I wanted him to hate me. Let him get all his rancor out on me. I've got all my aces out, but I've got a few jacks left floating around. Besides, it's not like I've never died before. He's not that creative.

"Here's the thing: you can't figure me out. Seriously. Don't try. Even _I_ surprise myself sometimes," I smirked, "and _certainly_ you don't have the _insight_ required to do so. Stay away from Harvey Dent and Rachel Dawes," I warned, my voice dropping into a sort of poodle-growl. Cute in that 'oh you don't really mean that' sort of way, then when the poodle bites you in the ass you realize that, _yes_, it _did_ mean it.

"I'm beginning to be _offended_," he hissed, "and I _**really fucking hate orders**_."

"Me?" I blinked innocently. "Why, I'm just giving you a _threat_."

He gave a slow, sinister smile at that.

"You'll find that I'm the _master_ at _threats_, and _**carrying them out**_."

"Good. Then you'll recognize that I'm the master of completing _mine_. Touch Harvey Dent again, or Rachel Dawes for that matter, and I'll _**rip your goddamn fucking face off**_."

"Try it," he challenged me, "right here, right now."

"_Can't hold it,"_ Mary's voice was tight and high with exertion.

_Thanks, Mary. I owe you one._

"_Remind me of that when you're about to shoot him next,"_ she muttered.

_Highly unlikely._

"_Then at least no more major organs,"_ she gritted out.

_Can't make any promises, but I'll do what I can._

"_Yeah, I'll bet."_

"No," I stated slowly, "behind bars, you're nothing more than a nuisance with mind games. I'm sure you've got some grand scheme in store, but—here's the thing—

"_You. Are. Nothing._"

"Then why are you so afraid of me?" he asked quietly.

I stared him dead in the eyes.

"I'm not."

He stared back, searching for something. Whatever it was, he didn't seem to find it. He dropped his gaze to his hands, where they were playing with a rubber band.

"Perhaps, girlie. Listen, dollface, you got a name?"

By the time he looked up from the rubber band he had in his hands, I was gone. Batman's not the only one who can pull off that trick. I tripped down the stairs though, and I'm sure that Brucey never did that. Stupid billionaire.

* * *

Trying to have a confrontation with a madman _and_ scurry about in his head _without_ him noticing is like trying to run a triathlon when you've been shot in both kneecaps. And with a club foot.

In short, it's almost impossible and requires an enormous herculean effort.

Probably an ambulance or two too. TU-TU! Heehee. What a funny word. (-s? Did it count as one or two?)

... what was I talking about?

I hauled ass to the Jeep, recklessly speeding across the city back to, surprise surprise, another warehouse. Okay, I get the fact that they're rickety and oh-so-convenient and all, but seriously—did he _never_ try to hold somebody for ransom in, I dunno, a public elevator? Nobody _ever_ looks at anybody else in an elevator. It would be a refreshing change, I'll tell you that.

I slammed the huge doors open, forcing my way through the maze of oil drums. Oh, gee, explosives. What originality. My eyes hardly even needed adjusting to the dark; maybe some of the benefits of being dead had carried over into this body. Hell, I'd take any and all advantages I could get.

"Rachel?" Harvey called out automatically, voice agonized and hopeful. Typical.

"No Rachels, just a pissed-off me," I called out irritably.

"If you're working for the Joker, I can provide immunity—" he started.

I let out a loud obnoxious laugh.

"Me? Working _for_ the Joker? Honey, I've been doing all I can to _stop_ him!" I sniggered.

He tried to look past his shoulder, but I know it was too dark for him to see me. I sawed through the ropes dutifully, dragging him out of the warehouse. I must've made good time, or else the cosmic sense of justice was finally beginning to wake up, because I was halfway down the block before it exploded.

He jumped at the noise, _Rachel_ on his lips, but before I could hear any more romantic nonsense, I tossed him my cellphone.

"She's at Wayne's penthouse, safe and snug—or at least she should be, I'll kill her myself if she's left—and that's where I'm taking you, minus a few quick detours," I replied to his unasked questions.

He stared at me, a complete stranger to him, who had mysteriously saved his life. Dundundun.

"Who are you?" he finally asked. "I'd like to know my saviour's name."

What he didn't say was: who are you, why did you save me, what do you want, and are you working for the Joker, start talking or else I shoot you.

"My name's not important," I waved the question away. "And, uh, let's just say that saving you is a _full-time_ job. Trust me, the Joker and I are really very much not on friendly terms right now. Pretty much the man probably wants to skin me alive—literally, if possible. He's really not that patient, I don't think."

"Do you work for the mob?" Harvey asked warily.

I sighed.

"Look, just think of me as the mystery toy in the cereal box, okay? I'm a random factor."

"I'm sorry, I should be thanking you, shouldn't I? You saved my life. And Rachel's..."

My eye twitches. Rachel, Rachel—what a woman you are. I admire you, but I'm _sick to death _of _hearing_ about you!

He remained quiet, and I was welcome to it. It felt so strange, knowing that he could see and hear me, that he was _aware_ of my existence. I'd watched over him for all these years from the shadows, so to speak, and now that I was with him... it was a little surreal.

I pulled over in front of a dingy club, and he regarded me curiously.

"Why are we stopping here?" he asked lightly, but I saw his suspicion.

I get the fact that he's a DA, and just been kidnapped by the Joker. However, I'm his fucking _guardian angel_. A little trust would be nice.

"I gotta see an old contact of mine," I mumbled purposefully.

He got the hint and shut up. He called Rachel as soon as I closed the car door shut, waiting until he locked it, then entered the club. The loud, strobe-lights-make-you-want-to-puke kind of club that had that funky odor of sweat, sex, various drugs and alcohol, and unwashed bodies all rolled into one lovely nauseating package was a little overwhelming.

I followed a junkie into the bathroom, where she was desperately counting change. I sighed, realizing that she obviously owed the wrong people more money than she had.

"I'll pay you a thousand bucks for your clothes," I offered flatly.

She stared at me incredulously.

"Seriously?!" she squeaked, voice going high at the last syllable.

"Yes. Very," I waved the bill.

She stripped, and I tossed her my clothes. It felt so _odd_ to _change_ clothes the old-fashioned way. Usually, I just projected whatever took my fancy. This way took more effort, but it was kinda fun, in a human sort of way. Ten minutes later, I was wearing knee-high black combat boots, a plaid-pink miniskirt, and a shirt artfully shredded that was black with pink stars. Meh. I could live with it. Emerging from the relative peace and safety of the bathrooms, I headed straight for the bar.

"OKITA!" I bellowed.

Something in my voice made him scurry over, ever-present smile on his lips. He beamed at me, liking my outfit.

"Hello, old friend! Well, what do you need today?" he asked cheerfully.

"Hit on the Joker?" I asked.

His face fell, and he looked disappointed.

"Nope, sorry. Nobody's that stupid—or suicidal—to go after him. Just like the old days..." he sighed dramatically, but there was a real wince there.

"This isn't some berserk nutcase, Okita. ... I need a favour."

I swear, the short man had little fox ears pop up at the word.

"You? Usually you're the one calling them in. What's up?" he asked, concerned.

I shrugged.

"Client's Harvey Dent. Got the Joker after him. I want to know that someone's going to keep an eye on him if something should happen," I said meaningfully.

He nodded, slowly, thoughtful.

"I'll have word sent out; by dawn, your Harvey will be the most well-protected man in the city," he promised faithfully.

I thanked him, and quickly headed out.

To an empty car.

With a ransom note taped on to the windshield.

_'Catch me if you can. The highest must fall the hardest.'_

Well, shit. Turn my back ten, fifteen minutes tops, and Harvey's kidnapped and drug off to Wayne Tower.

... I hate being human. I really fucking do.


	8. Chapter 8

-- blinks -- Well. Turns out THIS is the last chapter, after all. But, nevah feah! There's an epilogue, which is pretty much a chapter in itself, where I shall do my best to justify and explain why this fic was named after a Lucky Charms jingle. I've got it more or _less_ figured out, but... -- shrugs -- I'm really, really, _really_ looking forward to the sequel, because then we can move onto an original!storyline, post-my-AU-TDK. Le gasp!

Thanks to everybody who's stuck by my silly little story, and if anybody's interested: the sequel will be as nonsensical and irreverant as this one. Also with a bit of romance, I think. I'm a sucker for it after all. ... NO JOKERMANCE though. There's _enough_ of that floating around right now as it is, _thank you very much_. I'm honestly not trying to diss Jokermance fics (take a look at _Saviours and Hellion Smiles, The Dark Side of the Moon -- _pretty much anything by KatXValentine--, and of course, _Can't Get You Outta My Head_, by the lovely J-Horror Fan 4-Ever, who was kind enough to leave me TWO REVIEWS for this!) --fangirls for a moment -- To her, thank-you, it was a huge honor, and I'm at chapter 15 of your story. I'm waiting to finish it before I leave a nice, looooong review. Anyways, what was I saying about Jokermance? Oh yeah, there's some exceptionally well-written Joker/OC, Jokercentric stories out there amid all of the... less than stellar ones. I'm just steering clear of that genre because so many people have done it so much better than I ever could. Plus, pissing the Joker off is just _way_ too much fun.

Well, this has been a fun ride, and I hope that you kick back your feet, grab some popcorn, and relax. If you're wondering about Harvey Dent's xspoilercensorx, then it'll be explained _in full_ in the epilogue.

-- bittersweetly,

RW

* * *

I parked in the underground parking garage, sighing. I took my time to gather my supplies, trying to go over possibilities, moves and counter-moves. I was quiet when the reality of it hit me.

I was going to die. Again.

The somber realization wasn't as surprising, as I'd known this all along. It's just—when you're human, you take your continued existence for granted, even when you know it's just a false illusion. I _know_ how small human life really is, I've seen it for years.

See, here's the thing: time's not exactly A, then B, then C when you're dead. Um, how do I explain it without my head exploding and splattering brain-mush everywhere? Okay, time as we recognize it is a definite past, present, future. It's set, concrete. But after you're dead, somehow you're... loosened up from that. It's possible to exist in death in the _exact same time frame_ as when you're still alive, pre-death. So, I can exist _in Gotham_ **after** I'm _dead_, **while** I'm _still alive_... somewhere else in the world.

It also helps when we're getting cases. One day I can be in, oh, say 2057 AD (I never could get used to this new dating system), then early London with Jackie the Boy Ripper Wonder. It's very, very confusing and disorienting at first, but then you pretty much get used to it. Still get a kick to see how wrong people really are about how the way things _will be_ and how things _were_.

Makes you realize how much God's probably laughing his divine ass off at us.

Pushing the existential thoughts out of my head (damn you, philosophy course), I forced myself out of the Jeep. I stopped, and blinked.

Dr. Jonathan Crane blinked back at me.

"We've really got to stop meeting like this," I joked, cracking a smile.

"You," he breathed, cocking his head like I was some curious test subject.

Noooo, thank-you. Let's _not_ test the fear toxin on little old me.

"Hello, beautiful," I grinned, wagging my eyebrows. _No_ man can resist my come-hither eyebrows.

"Oh, I see. You're a hooker," he sighed, disappointment written across his face.

I gave him a strange look, then took a glance at my clothes. I guess I kinda did look like a hooker with this outfit. That gave me _quite_ a few pleasant ideas. I slunk up, pressing myself _aaaaaaall_ the way against him, flush so that we felt _every bit_ of each other.

Then I kissed him. His face was in my hands, held softly like the treasure it was, and it didn't matter that I had to stand on my toes, because let me tell you—that man was _magic_. You could say that he was my brand of heroine _exactly_.

"Honey," I purred, finally breaking away for air, "if I _were_ a hooker, I'd do _you_ for _free_."

Behind his adorable glasses, the lightest pink was beginning to spread across his cheeks. He cleared his throat, and I reluctantly stepped away, shaking my head sadly.

"I'd love to stay, _believe_ me, but I've got a DA to save and a Joker to kill," I frowned. "Parting is such sweet sorrow. Catch you on the flipside, beautiful," I winked.

He opened his mouth to speak, but I gave him a mischievous look and put my fingertips lightly on his lips. (read as: I want to throw the man down and shag him.) I shook my head, and he smiled, just a twitch of the lips, but it thawed those lovely blue eyes of his out a bit. Tearing myself away, I made myself go into a light jog towards the elevator, hitting the 'roof' button a little harder than necessary.

Really, the Joker is _not_ that creative. Now, the guy who made corpse dolls/puppets, _there_ was a man who thought outside of the proverbial box. Creepy as all hell, but still, you had to hand it to him—not just anybody could come up with an idea like _that_.

The Joker seriously wasn't as good as he thought he was. Explosive, psychopathic, sociopathic, _loud_, theatrical to the point of self-parody, cruel, intelligent—but certainly not creative.

I've survived (to put it in the loosest term imaginable, existence-wise) more serial killers and mass-murderers than this—this—_clown_. I'll play the odds regardless.

* * *

It was almost poetic, in a... gothic Western sort of way. The Joker, with that ridiculous purple pimp-coat, Harvey in his suit, and me, in hooker-clothes. What a trio we must've made with the sun setting, an orange blaze of glory before it was consumed by darkness.

Geeze. Kissing Sleepy Beauty must've rattled my brains a bit. Or maybe it was trying to explain the space-time continuum post-death. That could be it.

"Welcome to hell, girlie!" the Joker giggled maniacally.

"Does that make me Dante?" I raised an eyebrow. " 'Abandon hope, all ye who enter here'? Sorry to say, but it's been done."

He just laughed, and Harvey regarded me with fathomless eyes. Out of the corner of my eye I saw him trying to get to a nail to snag the ropes binding his legs and arms, but I kept my attention on the Joker, who was gesturing to my duffel bag with a contemptuous look.

"... and it's just not _class_, girlie, to bring a _sleepover bag_ to a _hostage_ situation," he sighed, tsking.

If there's one thing I _hate_, it's being tsked at.

I'm going to beat his fucking _face_ in.

"Oh well," I shrugged innocently. "I suppose I won't need this after all."

I pulled the revolver out, but he lunged, slamming me up against the wall, his wiry frame like steel girders threatening to suffocate me. But Har-vey Den_tuh_ had gotten free, and with the last bit of strength I managed to kick him the bag.

He tore it open, and the Joker tried to turn except I _somehow_ managed to _elbow_ him in the _groin_, and he snarled, focusing back on me with a vengeance that was startling, even to me. He grunted something viciously, but I was concentrating on Harvey. He had the parachute in his hands, and my eyes begged him to understand.

Miraculously, he did.

Slipping it on, he had the inflatable raft in his hands when the Joker finally stopped toying with my windpipe and panted like the mad dog he was. His hands were shaking with excitement, eyes bright with gleeful murder.

In other words, he was being his usual self.

"Tell me, what's it like being dead?" he hiccuped giddily.

"Shoot yourself and find out," I replied smartly.

He backhanded me across the face, and I saw Harvey's mouth contort with rage, but again my eyes begged, and again a miracle happened and he stayed back, even though he _hated _it. How strange—the charge wanting to save the guardian angel. Didn't he know that we were already dead? A part of my brain was scolding_ of course not, idiot_ but I was too dizzy to care.

"Now, I'm tired of going about this all _subtle_-like—" I snorted at that. "—so we're going to end all of this with a _bang._ I'm sorry, girlie, but I've got other bats to play with," he shook his head.

He picked up a grenade launcher and aimed at Harvey, who froze for just a heartbeat, just long enough for the Joker to pull the trigger—

_Suddenly, it wasn't grown-man!Harvey standing there, but little-boy!Harvey, wide-eyed in the first realization that his father wasn't __**all there**__... a lost, alone little boy..._

_... then it wasn't a little boy at all, but a little girl... she was screaming..._

_I dove on instinct. Pushed with everything within me._

Fire. I was screaming, my skin feeling like it was burning—which it was—and the only thing that helped was the freezing air because I was _falling_... I blinked, my eyes tearing up, slipping away into unconsciousness because there was _no oxygen._

Did I ever mention my absolutely debilitating fear of heights?

Yeah. I _know_ I'm dead, I _know_ I've died a few more times I care to recount, but somehow the irrational fear of falling to my death's never left me.

And here I am. Falling to my death.

Irony, thou art destiny's bitch.

My right arm was _agony_, and I almost welcomed the darkness that was coming because I saw Harvey sailing safely off through the sky in a blue and neon green polka-dotted parachute, so it was okay. Dying (_again_) was okay now; he was safe. Okita would have his contacts out, the Clan would be keeping a _very_ watchful eye on Dent and Rachel, and they would all get to live happily ever after. And if I was _very_ fortunate, my dead body would fall on the Joker and kill him on impact.

What a lovely last thought.

The world faded into black...

* * *

Ow.

... HOLY FUCKING SHIT! FUCKITY FUCK FUCK!

I let out a little silent scream of pure, unadulterated _agony_. Please try to understand this: imagine putting gasoline on your arm and lighting it on fire, then breaking it, then shoving nails through it, then just for the hell of it, letting a Rottweiler chew on it for awhile.

With _no painkillers._

That's a fraction of what I felt when I came to. I slowly became aware of somebody shouting for somebody, the ringing in my head was squeezing out everything else. I tried to recall what had happened last.

_Harvey was a little boy again being threatened, no wait, it was a little girl, it was __**her—**_

_Never enough time, just enough to give—a—little—**push—**_

_Falling, Harvey sailing off like a ridiculous dayglow polka-dot bird..._

I sat up slowly, biting down another anguished scream, choking a bit. Somebody hands me a glass of water, a decidedly _male_ hand, and I know who it is before I even look up.

"Bruce Wayne," I mutter hoarsely, "you never can resist sticking your nose into my work."

He raised a dark eyebrow, eyes warily amused, watching me like I might jump up and bite him. As if. I'm not a masochist like the Joker, I feel like all I want to do is just _lie_ in the bed for awhile. I manage an impressive glare though.

"Harvey?" I demand with as much hostility as I can muster. If there's one thing I've learned over the centuries, _never_ trust romantic rivals, no matter how shiny the teeth are.

"Prospering. He and Rachel are getting married next month. She's pregnant..." he trailed off wistfully, and I rolled my eyes. Yet another reason for him to angst over.

"The Joker?" I ask flatly.

His eyes darken, become _Batman's_ eyes, and I acknowledge the change by tensing up.

"Dead."

I jumped, my heart monitor going so crazy for a minute that Bruce stared at it for a moment in alarm, like either I was going to have a heart attack or it was going to become a robot and attack him. Neither were particularly palatable thoughts.

"Did you break your rule?" I demanded.

He looked startled, then scowled.

"I have no idea what you're talking about," he grimaced.

"Like _hell_ you don't. Listen, Batbillionaire, _what the hell happened to my Harvey_?"

He sighed, lowering his head to rest on his chin as his eyes bored into me. I met them unflinchingly, because after the people I've rumbled with, he's _tame_.

"He died in the blast. Some rope got tangled around his foot, and he... fell. Batman had to choose between saving you, or saving him. He chose you."

"Yay me," I muttered sarcastically, rubbing my throbbing forehead. "Listen, did you find the body?"

"... what? No, of course not! It would've been vaporized from that height..." he trailed off, wincing. I winced too; I'd almost had that fate myself.

"Then he's still alive."

"WHAT?!" he shouted, jerking to his feet.

Impatiently, I motioned him down. He did so, sullenly, but eventually calmed down enough for rational (or what passed for that in his head) thought to return.

"If there's one thing I've learned over the years, it's this: no body, nobody died. He's probably nursing his wounds, but I imagine he's given up on Harvey... for now. There's other ways to break Gotham's soul in two, without the need for my Dent's head. You should have a few months of peace for awhile, but be prepared and don't be surprised when he blows something up again."

"You say _my_ Harvey, _my_ Dent," Bruce spoke curiously, "why is that?"

"I'm his guardian angel," I shrugged, "for lack of a better term."

He stared at me incredulously.

I'm getting used to people staring at me. It's a hazard of the job and being just a wee bit mental.

"... you're his... you've got to be... ... no, wait. I really, _really_ don't want to know."

I raised a scorched eyebrow, wincing, but amused.

" 'Is Ra's al Ghul immortal? Are his methods supernatural?' " I mused rhetorically.

Bruce paled dramatically. I smiled pleasantly in response.

"... I think the phrase 'ignorance is bliss' defines my feelings rather nicely right now. I'm going to go tell Harvey you're up," he shook his head, getting up.

"... BRING ME DONUTS!" I shrieked after him, grinning as his steps faltered.

Ahh. Toying with billionaires who dress up as vigilante emo bats. Gotta love it.

"_I see you're finally up,"_ Mary hissed.

_Oh come on, he's not really dead, is he?_

"_Well... no, but I've been told to drop the case!"_

_Is that really such a bad thing, Mary?_ I asked gently. _It was tearing you apart._

"_IT WAS MY CALL TO MAKE!"_

_... I'm sorry. I couldn't let the Joker win. For **that**, I will **not** apologize. For wounding your record... I **am** sorry about that._

"_... you owe me a gallon of gelato."_

_Deal._

I really didn't feel up to facing Harvey and his blushing bride-to-be-expectant-mother-of-his-unholy-spawn. Now, I'm not Superman (dude, seriously, all his guardian angel has to worry about is Lex Luthor—another delicious man—and kryptonite. Lazy ass.), I don't heal from wounds overnight. But it was in all of our best interests if I were to disappear for awhile, duck under the radar so to speak, so I could see what in the hell the Joker's planning now. If anything.

I leave a little white dove feather I find on the windowsill in my crumpled bed. Just to mess with their heads. Ripping out the IV hurts like a motherfucker, and I bite my lip so hard I draw blood, but my arm's what's in utter, mind-shattering _pain_. I swipe a whole bottle of codeine as I gingerly limp my way through the hospital corridors. I have a vague idea floating around in my head, but I'm not sure if that's a product of the painkillers pumping through my bloodstream or my own brilliant imagination.

_Gwen?_ I sighed, sitting in the park, absorbing the sunshine.

"_... If you say 'I told you so', I'll kill you,"_ she warned.

_I'm taking a vacation. I've got enough time built up. As of today, I am officially dropping the Harvey Dent case. __**I quit.**_

There was a long pause, which made me smile mildly at a dandelion in my hands. I'd reclaimed my hooker outfit, minus the combat boots, and I'm sure that I looked for all the world like a dreamy little lost waif-girl. Ha. Ha. Fucking. Ha.

"_WHAT?! YOU JUST DEFEATED __**THE JOKER**__ AND YOU'RE __**QUITTING**__?! WHO AM I GOING TO GET TO REPLACE YOU?!"_

_What about Frances? He's a decent guy, a good guardian. He's had some good Gotham charges before, nice track record. I'm sure he'd like to take the case._

"_... I really fucking hate you."_

_Aw, it's so nice to know that we feel the same way about each other._

With that settled, I tuned Gwen's ranting out, and meandered aimlessly out of the park and through the streets, no particular destination in mind. Sometimes, it was just too good to be human, and I was going to enjoy it to the fullest while it lasted.


	9. Epilogue

Here it is, the epilogue! If anybody misses it, there's a slight crossover with _Doctor Who_, because I am of the personal opinion that _Doctor Who_ can simply be crossed-over with _anything_ really. That, and I just couldn't resist. If you have no idea what I'm talking about, for the love of God, go look it up on YouTube. It's one of the most _fantastic_ shows. Ever.

And there's _so many_ dishy men. Mwuahaha.

Well... this was a little bittersweet for me to write. But, I'm looking forward to the sequel! It'll be all about the reluctant Jonathan Crane aka Scarecrow and the wee bit mental ghost-girl, who I'm _finally_ giving an alias to, and their humorous relationship with one another. All the usual characters will come in: the Joker (does anybody else think that he could very well be a Time Lord himself? The Doctor, The Master, The Joker? ... c'mon, _nobody_?!), Gordon, Batman/Brucey, Rachel, the irrepressable Harvey Dent, Rachel and Harvey's as-yet-unnamed-spawn, and the broken-arm!thug that ghost-girl keeps running into. Mwuahaha.

Anyways, thanks to everybody who bothered to read this fic, and especially thank-you to my kind reviewers! The sequel, _Clovers and Blue Moons_, will also be adding new canon!villains to the world as well... and revealing more of ghost-girl's past that she cares to admit.

I bid you adeiu.

-- gratefully,

RW

* * *

Okay. Walking through Gotham with third-degree burns in hooker clothes and barefoot was probably _not_ the smartest idea I've had, but I blame it totally on the morphine I must've been injected with. I think I just kinda became like a walking zombie there for awhile, minus the whole craving for flesh thing.

Well... not to _eat_, anyways. Mwuahahaha!

The thought of _food_ makes my stomach so ill that I heave violently into the nearest thing that doesn't move. Turns out to be Lieutenant Gordon's brown paper lunchbag. Wiping my mouth on one of his napkins, I smile sheepishly as he stares at my heavily bandaged arm and bare feet in fatherly concern. It's enough to make my heart melt.

Did I ever mention that Jim Gordon is probably the only person in Gotham I really _like_?

Besides Dr. Crane, of course. Man like that deserves a class of his own.

"Are you okay, miss?" he asks, voice kind and soft.

I play the little-girl-lost card, nodding my head vigorously until it makes me dizzy and I have to clutch a bike-holder-thingie (what the hell are those called? Bike racks?) for support. He reaches out to me but hesitates, like a good cop should.

Waaaaiiiit a minute. He's the _commissioner_ now, isn't he? I need to get him a gift. Maybe the Joker's head. Or at least his balls.

_There's_ a wonderful idea.

"I'm f-f-f-f-iiiiine," I stutter.

... ooookkkaaaaaay. Since _when_ do I _stutter_?? I slink away when he turns to throw the vomit-covered lunch away. He finds a thousand-dollar bill laying on the ground with a hastily drawn GA scribbled on it. Let him try to figure _that_ out.

I wandered around for a long time, my conscious mind kinda blinking on and off like an alarm. Dangerous criminal, half-on and I become lucid enough to find a mangled figure at my feet. Huh. Oh well, whatever works. Eventually, as night falls, I struggle for more clear thought. It's a losing battle, or at least one that I'm not winning, because I find myself shuffling through the seedier part of Gotham. ... I _was_ still in Gotham, right? I don't remember any trains, ferries, or planes... Then again, I wasn't exactly working on a full battery.

"Hey there _chi—MADRE DE DIOS! _NO MORE, I BEG YOU!" a terrified voice wailed.

I blinked.

Oh... I knew him. Right? Hmm... was he the one who pissed himself or who ran into the brick wall?

"I am your humble servant, just please—no more breaking my arm," he sobbed.

"... okaaaay... um... whazz the Joker up to theesh days?"

Geeze. I sound like a drunk. Speaking of, I could do with a drink...

"Er... he's repairing his organization since the mob refuses to have dealings with him..."

I nodded sagely.

"That'sh good, that'sh good. G'way," I shooed him off.

Happily scampering off, he disappeared into the growing gloom. I leaned against a lamppost, feeling weak and light-headed like a kitten. I think I was hurt a lot worse than I'd originally thought. I stumbled along haphazardly...

... and slammed into a big blue box that I swear to God hadn't been there five minutes ago.

"Oh my God! Doctor!"

Yeeeaaahhh, that's riiight, I neeed a dooooctoooor... I'll plaaay doooooctoooor with yooouuuu...

"Rose? What—oh you've _got_ to be kidding me! Hold up her head!"

British? What the hell was a British—holy hell, that man has the most _fantastic_ hair I've ever seen... yummy... he and "Rose" were a good match, balancing each other...

Why are there little Big Bens dancing around playing the William Tell Overture?

"She's hit her head pretty hard. Poor little thing's all banged up. Nevermind that, we'll have her fixed up good as new inaminnit," he reassured his companion cheerfully. I groaned in misery.

Gingerly feeling my head, I watched as he pulled out... a screwdriver? What, was he going to end my agony and stab me in the head with it? ... why was it blue and whirring? Why did this Doctor look so damn familiar?

Waaaaaaaaiiiiiiiiiitaminnit. There was something—I accidentally brushed Rose's palm as she helped me sit up, my hand connecting with her lifeline. Ohh. Time Lords, Gallifrey, that whole spiel. Nice. Of all the people in the universe, at _this time_ in the universe, it _would _be the Doctor. Haven't seen him in awhile though, hope he's been doing okay. Sometimes that alien worries me.

Yeah. Aliens. Get used to it. Coupla years from now, we get to look forward to being introduced to the rest of the galaxy. If you thought _international _affairs were a headache, just _wait_ until _interplanetary_ affairs start a-comin'. Funness.

Hmm. Doctor. Rose Tyler--

Hot damn. So she was _that_ Rose.

"Doctor, dun let near ghosts. Th'spitpawn's right."

He stared at me, eyes going dark and utterly inhuman. For a moment, I could see perfectly well why the Daleks (most deadly and fucking irritating creatures in existence, at any time, anywhere) called him the Oncoming Storm. Brr.

He nodded suddenly, face breaking out into a wide grin. Little manic, wasn't this regeneration? What, his ninth? No, tenth I think.

"Ohh. I get it now! You're a guardian angel! Don't get too many around here... wherever here is."

"Oh, so you don't even know where we are? Not very Spock, Doctor," Rose huffed, grinning.

"Weeell, surprises are good. When you're not running around, saving the world," he beamed at her affectionately. Oh my, another couple. Yay.

"The toilet of the universe," I muttered.

"Beg pardon?" the Doctor asked me, taken aback.

"You're in Gotham City, otherwise known as the toilet of the universe," I sighed, clarifying.

"Right, Gotham City! What year?" the Doctor asked excitedly.

"Oh my God, Gotham? Really? So, we're back on Earth again? Brilliant!"

"The Joker's shown up," I replied to his inquiry flatly.

His animated face fell.

"Oh," he said, very quietly.

Rose noticed it immediately, turning to him. Her deep brown eyes were concerned.

"Doctor?" she asked softly, reaching out hesitantly for his hand.

"Look, I'll be fine. Just get out of here, Doctor. And remember what I said about the ghosts—_both_ of you _will_ die if you forget my warning. Nobody wants that," I said gently.

"Right," he replied, dark eyes fathomless.

"Look, are you _sure_ you'll be okay? You could come with us..." Rose trailed off, taking in my bedraggled appearance and bandaged form critically.

I somehow staggered to my feet, giving them the best smile I could, even if it was a little tight. The Doctor's sonic screwdriver (... who makes a _screwdriver __**sonic**_? Please.) had healed most of my injuries, but I was still woozy and out of it. I couldn't risk going to a hospital because the Joker would just _love_ to have me drugged up. So would all of the other upstanding citizens of Gotham eagerly wanting an explanation from me that, in all seriousness, _I could not give them_. That really wouldn't sit well with the city powerhouses: Dent, Dawes, Gordon, and Wayne, let _alone_ everybody else.

"Rose... she knows what she's doing. Trust me," he said seriously, gently pulling her back into the whatchamacallit. TARDIS, right? Right? Damn, my head was killing me.

"What are you doing with my patient?" came a soft, husky voice, a professional mix of mild irritation and polite curiosity.

"I'm the Doctor, and you are?" the Doctor stuck his head out of the TARDIS.

"Dr. Jonathan Crane," he sighed.

Mmmmm. I'd _definitely_ do him for free. Heck, I'd probably pay _him_.

He stood behind me, blue eyes cold and focused on the Doctor, who turned to look at me questioningly. I gave him a nod, and he disappeared into the TARDIS, which in turned wheezed off to somewhere, some_when_, else in the history of the universe.

"... I don't want to know. I'm sure I'm going to regret asking, but what _happened_ to you?" he raised an elegant eyebrow.

"I'ma bout to pass out!" I informed him cheerfully. Next thing I knew, I was out like a light.

* * *

For the second time, I woke up in an unfamiliar bed.

It smelled nice. Not like the hospital bed, which reeked of starch and disinfectants and _white_, these sheets were white too but soft. They smelt like detergent, clean and warm and safe. For a moment, just a _moment_, it was almost like I was home again. I hadn't felt that way in a long, long time. I took a deep whiff, and noticed the _other_ smell. It smelt like a man—I don't know how to describe it, except that it was a very masculine smell but delicate, tinted slightly with a cologne I'd always loved on a man.

Wait. Did I _die_ again?! Did they stick me in _heaven_?!

They had _no right_ to do that!!

Distantly, I heard the tv on in the other room, sound low. It took me a moment to notice that my wounds had been re-bandaged, and the feeling that my head was somewhere around Neptune was gone. Stumbling out of bed, I _also_ noticed that I'd been changed into a t-shirt that was entirely too big for me. I sniffed it, and the same smell from the bed surrounded me. I sighed happily.

Carefully keeping a hand on the wall just in case, I limped into the living room. I saw a dark-haired figure sitting on the couch, elbows resting on his knees with his chin on his intertwined hands. He looked so serious that I wanted to ruffle his hair, but he was so lovely that I just sat down beside him.

"Thank you," I said quietly.

He glanced at me, nodding to show that he'd heard me. Carefully pulling my legs up to me, I tried to focus on what the newscasters were saying.

"--it was a miracle that Gotham's White Knight was saved only two days ago, by a mysterious figure who goes only by the letters GA: Gotham's Angel, perhaps? Certainly, whoever this is is our beloved Harvey Dent's _guardian_ angel at least. After heroically fighting the Joker, the District Attorney tried to pull the two of them to safety but the blast forced them apart. Somehow, GA had brought a parachute—probably to escape himself—but sacrificed himself to save the White Knight. The DA landed safely in the river, on a... pink liferaft. Rescuers immediately pulled him to saf--"

Jonathan clicked the tv off, sliding his eyes to study me. I twitched nervously.

"Um, I _did_ tell you that I had to run off to save Dent," I sighed, running a hand through my hair and wincing when it hit dried blood. Ick. I really needed a shower.

"That you did," he said thoughtfully. "So you're Gotham's new _superhero_," he said scornfully, "GA? What does that even stand for?" he demanded derisively.

I was silent for a long moment, the only sound was of our breathing and the ticking of a huge grandfather clock in the corner.

"It doesn't mean anything, Jonathan."

He raised his eyebrow again at me calling him by his first name, but didn't say anything. I took it as a sign to plow on.

"Look, I'm—it's complicated, okay? But I'm not some spandex-wearing superhero wannabe. I'm not even the real deal, either. I'm just... _me._ And if it's okay, I'd kinda like to crash with you for awhile. The Joker's not gonna be real happy that I survived."

He sighed, shaking his head. He turned, putting his hands around my face. I saw the gleam in his eye, and I got very, very still. Reminding myself that not only was the Scarecrow somewhere in there, Jonathan'd also gotten a blast of his own fear toxin. Still was nice. Still was safe.

"Are you his... bedwarmer?" he demanded delicately. I snorted.

"Puh-_lease_. We hate each other. That's pretty much it between us, except trying to bash the other's face in at any and _all_ opportunities," I rolled my eyes.

"I'm still a doctor, I can't have somebody like you running around the streets in a state like this," he sighed. Aww. Ever the gentleman. I _must_ make it up to him sometime... If he'll let me.

Curling up in a contented little ball, he clicked the tv back on. After a minute or two, he started to relax, leaning back into the couch.

He looked human without the glasses on.

"--the Joker has issued this challenge to GA: all the King's horses and all the King's men, couldn't put Humpty Denty back together again. The heart, the star, the horseshoe. They _**all fall down**_! Oh, ho, hah, HAHAHAHAHAHAAAA!!"

"Oh dear," I sighed.

Jonathan glanced at me, cocking his head in just _that way_.

"Well, obviously, Rachel's the heart," I mumbled to myself, thinking out loud. Jonathan scowled at the name. "The star is either Harvey Dent or Bruce Wayne, but since he mentioned Humpty Denty, I'm _thinking_ that it's... either one of these two. I dunno. The horseshoe... is that me? Because I keep hurling metal objects into him? Or because I put a ringer in the game? How _flattering_. Sonuvabitch. Or maybe the horseshoe is the Joker himself, the unexpected element..." I rubbed my pounding head.

"The King is, obviously, Batman. He rules this town after all. The King's horses and men refer to the police, the ones not corrupted by Maroni. Humpty Denty is, rather obviously, Harvey Dent, referring to his fragile mental state. As you said, the heart is Miss Dawes. The star is the Joker, because he wants the attention and compliance of all of Gotham—even the mob. The horseshoe, I am guessing, represents a new element, probably you," he said suddenly.

I stared at him.

"You're bloody _brilliant_, d'you _know_ that?!" I shrieked delightedly, throwing my arms around him in a hug. He gave a startled little 'oomph' noise, and awkwardly patted me on the back.

"Er, you're quite welcome, Miss...?" he trailed off expectantly.

"Call me Dante," I grinned impishly.

"That's an... unusual name," he noted cautiously.

"I'm a pretty unusual person, don'tcha think?" I shrugged.

He looked heavenward for a moment, as if asking for divine help, and tossed me some keys.

"Bring it back in one piece. That's all I ask," he rubbed the bridge of his nose.

Placing a quick kiss on his forehead, I yanked on a bathrobe and set off.

This was going to be the start of a beautiful relationship, I could already tell.


End file.
